


thrall the fuck engine

by swampgallows



Category: Warcraft III, World of Warcraft
Genre: Bloodlust, Breaking and Entering, F/M, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Multiple Orgasms, i have no idea how to tag things so this is already shaping up to be a disaster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-23 19:26:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13196937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swampgallows/pseuds/swampgallows
Summary: Thrall comes into contact with a revitalizing substance and temporarily relives the euphoria of his glory days.Offshoot of fitze's powder/pollen AU [implied].





	thrall the fuck engine

**Author's Note:**

> choo choo

Thrall was capable of tolerating any variation of conditions. He had slept on a damp cave floor in the midst of a blizzard. He had dug out a small hovel to weather a dust storm. He had both awaken and fallen asleep crawling with rats and bugs. Yet, comfortable in his bed, wrapped in clean, soft furs, he found he could not sleep. Something itched. Something itched from within.

He thought it might be bed mites, but he was more than accustomed to ignoring those in his gladiator days, residing in what was worse than a barn and caged like an animal too. No, it was not the mites, but something of his gladiator days did resonate. Something distant, something bold. A sun was rising in his memories, illuminating something long since darkened. Long since buried.

He idly scratched his chest, draped in what was becoming a stiff and uncomfortable tunic. Unlike most orcs, no matter the climate Thrall preferred to sleep clothed. It was habit, certainly, but he accepted that it was also proper. It was left over from many old habits, most likely. He could not leave any weak spots. For opponents, for Blackmoore, for anyone. The Horde knew what scars lay beneath Doomhammer's platemail; he did not need to parade them. Thusly, he had long stopped sweating, spiting the black plate armor and his heavy black braids and his thick black body hair.

But now, he sweat. His tunic was becoming dabbled with the stuff, sticking to him, flattening his chest hair against his skin. His eyes shifted from one edge of the room to the other, ensuring he was alone. His ears flexed as he listened, listened closely. Then, reaching up from the bottom, he pulled the tunic over his head. He sat upright in his bed and waited.

The cool night air soothed immediately, and he figured that would do. The corner of his mouth tugged upward, recalling just how long ago it was that he—

His face creased into a frown. He could feel the mites all over him. He could feel his veins expanding and contracting. His heart pulsed in a way he could only describe as nostalgic. He felt... young, suddenly, but could not place just how.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and began to pace the room, then stopped mid-stride. He would go see Jaina, of course.

 

The night must be bright, as he saw quite well in the dark. And he knew just where she was, where she would be waiting for him. In no moment he was standing outside her quarters, a dark wooden door carved with beautiful ornamentation barring him from her. Strangely, it was locked. But for no discernible reason; she knew he was coming to see her.

There was no need to waste any time. Thrall jerked the handle but it failed to give. He gripped the handle again, watching the veins in his arm float and throb at the surface. He squeezed harder and observed the shift of his muscles—still taut, still built—as he applied force. He glanced down at his pectorals, rising and falling and swollen with power, his chest hair thatching together from his sweat. He found himself sweating profusely now, everything very much a bother and very much in the way. He did not have to knock; in fact, it was improper of Jaina to shut this door on him when she was so clearly expecting a guest. And so, despite the locking mechanism, he opened it.

 

Jaina Proudmoore had barely risen from her cocoon of blankets when Thrall approached. Her hair was sloppily tousled in all directions, her skin supple and flush from sleep.

"Th-Thrall...? What... what is it?" She rubbed her eyes and pulled up her covers. But this was not the occasion for such a gesture, as evident in Thrall's own lack of dress. The room was larger than he remembered, and she appeared so much further away than he intended. So as to not linger in the doorway, Thrall came forward to her bedside.

An odd sound came from her: a sort of yelp, like a frightened pup. It encouraged him. His chest was tighter, his vision sharper. A metallic taste blotted his tongue.

 

His jaws unclenched. "Jaina."

She had slunk to the other side of her bed, looking like a guilty child. "Thrall, is everything all right? I heard— I heard a sound, a sound like someone was breaking in."

"Jaina," he said again, growing impatient. His britches felt tight, and when he stepped forward again he had left steaming footprints on the wooden floor. "Come here."

"Tell me what's going on," she said, more of her tiny body disappearing into her bed. She couldn't hide for long. "You look—" she started, eyes flitting down his body, "Worked up." 

That look of hers made his skin crawl. Why so quick? Come here. See him closer.

 

His hand dove beneath the covers and snatched up her narrow ankle. He yanked her light body across the width of the bed and brought her foot to rest on his hip. The other followed suit, of course, languid and askew off the edge of the bed. But she was covered, so he made her visible, taking his free hand to throw aside all of the dressings until it was her and him and the bed itself.

She was dressed appropriately for his company. A thin cotton slip clung to her curves, pale enough to see the blush of her bosom underneath, and her sweet legs and feet were bare. Upward, in plain sight for him in this stance, were cotton panties, albeit more opaque than her slip. Still, a modest tuft darkened a patch just above the point where her thick thighs diverged. Just above another kiss of blush.

 

"Are you— What are you—" She had no reason to be coy but she played it anyway.

His stiff hands ran the length of her creamy legs up to her hips, and then he pulled them forward to meet his. Her legs wrapped about him, yet she still sounded perplexed.

"Are you... are you sure?" She chuckled to herself. "Who are you and what have you done with Thrall?" 

 

"I _am_ Thrall," he announced defiantly. A tide began to rise from his stomach. "And all who do not fear me no longer live," he continued, reciting from an atrophied muscle memory. Her body began to feel limp against his, yet he felt more solid and sure and poised with each passing moment.

It was then that she wriggled a bit free, but in the next breath he had raked her back toward him in a single swipe.

"Come here," he growled. He fastened her legs around him by securing himself up against the bed and pressing his hands on her forearms. Her messy golden hair was splayed all around her, encircling her round, wide-eyed, beautiful face like a halo. His britches were steadily becoming a burden, constricting and prickling him as the sweat dried and ran again down his whole body. 

 

"I've never seen you like this," she smiled. "Not since after Hyjal, but even then..." Her eyelids hooded and she dared to look him up and down again. Closer, closer. She should feel him with more than her eyes. His breath was heaving, now, his body arcing more pronounced over hers. She began to tilt her hips up and down to graze her undergarments along his pants. One hand still on her arm, his other immediately pulled up and then tore at the cloth between her legs. He dismissively bat away the slip, bunching it up by her neck, then ran one giant hand down her torso.

 

"Jaina," he said again, straight to the point. It was time the britches came off. They were troubling him enough as it is. A heady musk emanated from his exposed body, becoming even more so once the pants fell to the floor. Her room would most certainly carry the mark of an orc even days after he had left it. This bed was his, now, as were the blankets and pillows that littered the floor, and the floor itself, and the room itself, and she who it previously belonged to was his also. Even if she didn't know it, everyone else would. And neither of them would have to say a word, for it would be clear on a visceral, nascent level that Thrall had left his mark.

 

He is the Warchief.

 

He did not gloat, but now was the time. Now, uninhibited, it was all his, and his sweat could reach the floor and leave his body, the body of a champion, and the blood pumping through his body, the body of a leader, could realize its purpose and fulfill its inkling. Her abdominal kisses dotted his engorged member, coaxing it within her and inviting him into her splendor. And, again, he could not be bothered with pleasantries.

 

He promptly began to fuck her. The audible gulp that leapt from her throat indicated her surprise but he paid it no mind. He had a job to do.

His hips rocked steadily, slipping into a slight downward angle as he progressed. Sweet Jaina was lolling and rolling side to side, shapely legs knitting and spreading themselves around his body. So he pressed down on her to keep her in place, his wet body hair tickling her smooth skin. With some maneuvering he managed to take a nipple into his mouth to suck and tease her breasts, one at a time as to not overwhelm her. She tasted like summer fruit with an extra, refreshing bite, so crisp and cool he bit back himself. He nipped at her shoulders: his tusks scraped the soft flesh of her chest and left bloody indents from his teeth in his wake. From this she moaned and screamed a bit, though he knew her ample constitution left her in no pain. His lap felt wet, more wet than from his own perspiration, and he briefly checked on the mewling Jaina. She was writhing and pawing at him, and from what he could tell, she was begging. He felt her toes curling at his back and brought up his pace, hammering into her. He had a match to win.

 

He had her now, and she wasn't going anywhere, so he put his hands to work. Still sliding in and out of her shallow limit, he pressed a calloused thumb to her nub and rubbed in circles. The sounds she made then forced him into a deep focus. He had forgotten all of the other things that were his: the pillows and bed and blankets. Even his Horde was a foggy memory, drowned out by her lilting moans and musical cries.

Her body moved like a dance, he observed, silky and cohesive and passionate. So many dances he had performed in the arena, stepping here and there and swinging his body to dodge one attack and counter another. But the most impressive was when he would gather the momentum of his own body to empower his finishing moves, to step and parry with such precision and calculation that his final blow could cleave his opponent in two. So when he bumped her to the hilt repeatedly, fearing somewhere in the back of his mind that it might bruise, he adjusted his angle but otherwise did not pull back. Though he felt his eyes and mind recede somewhere into him shortly, he kept his pace below, even as he shot his warmth deep into her. He did not stop, for he couldn't. He had a streak to keep.

 

Jaina said some things but he did not hear them. He saw her body jolt upwards and then finally lie back, her breasts and belly moving with his thrusts. His thumb had not left her but did briefly idle, and now he set to work again. She protested with sharp whimpers, as far as he could tell, but she would have to cooperate. He breathed hard through his mouth, his harsh panting wetting his beard. Her back arched up and down, lifting off the bed occasionally as he toyed with her soft spot. It was already so soon but he felt a deep pressure lifting in him again, snaking its way through his lap. For this he flattened himself against her, pressing his mouth against hers and struggling, but only for a moment, to wrangle his breaths enough to kiss her.

His tongue took full purchase of her mouth, and from there he could taste her voice. His arms slid beneath her to lift and press her to him, securing her as tightly as he could. She would stay here and have him, though he knew she wouldn't leave. She wriggled again, so tighter he held. One of her arms shot up from under him, and his moved to meet it. He would match her every step of the way, his tongue unwittingly edging down her throat, his thumb caressing, his hips mechanically rocking into her. His braids were coiled around her, framing her shoulders and draped across her arms like ropes. She would stay put. But still, she moved so much, and so faster and heavier he weighed himself upon her.

There was still an itching, still a fuzzy static that lit up behind his eyes even as he poured himself again inside her. His throat felt dry and scratchy but he could not falter. He would not take water until he was finished. And so he continued, burying Jaina deeper into the bed. He felt her become flat and small, and in one turn of his wrist he instead flipped her upright in his lap, he now on his back. She looked dazed, hair mussed and clinging to her sweat, but the way the light cascaded down the shapes and slopes of her perfect body rendered her angelic. How he treasured her, how he loved her. How right it was that she was his. His fortitude kept her aloft even as he bounced her, watching her swivel and sigh on him in her pleasure. And he, the mighty chieftain of the Horde, the Warchief, Thrall, the undefeated gladiator, would ensure this. He gripped her rear and tilted her toward him, moving her body against his in his own movements and giving friction where she needed it most. She fell upon him then, fingers tangled in his chest hair and her golden tresses spilling down her neck.

His rapt audience, she chanted his name—Thrall, Thrall, Thrall—just as he desired, just as he had earned. A red tint crept into the edges of his vision, the acrid sting of copper into his nostrils. He ushered his will upon her tighter, harder, puncturing indents into the soft flesh of her behind. His lips twisted themselves shut around his tusks. That clarity was returning, the heat-seeking precision of the arena, and the accolades sounded off louder and louder from the stands in his memories. He sat up and cloistered Jaina in his grip, heavily fastening her bottom half to his. Such a small thing she was, yet such a fitting match. Never did she relent, and always did she surprise him. No other opponent, within the ring or not, had ever met his equal so much as Jaina Proudmoore. Even as his eyes bled over, pronged lust gutting his senses, he honored her. When she soaked his lap again, panting hotly into his skin, he returned the favor a third time in soaking hers.

 

The moment his hands lifted from her she toppled backward upon the bed—the bed that was his, he remembered—and in remembering all of his many things, the things which were his, including this woman, he sought to claim her again. Just once more, at least once more; the crowd shouted down for an encore. He was never a beast to play with his food but it did separate gold from purses, and it was unlike him to deprive his patrons of a show. So he bat her wilting form about in his palms, hoping to invigorate a little more fight in his prey. But she was pink and blue, fingers bent like soggy reeds, and though he knew her spirit stayed alight her body fought to preserve its embers. So he would reach the spark inside, the fiery essence that drove the frost mage, by lengthening himself over her and engaging again.

She could lie there; that was fine, as it would not impede him any. He stepped up onto the bed, it creaking beneath his weight, and stood before her at his full height—massive orc that he was, towering over the small sorceress—then bent low and flung her withering legs above her head.

 

He fucked her. She lied there and he fucked her, pulling her up by her ankles and penetrating her deep and full. Her responses were slow and viscous, a single moan stuck and rattling around in her chest. He reeled back and watched her head knock against the bed with each push inside. She was fuzzy and formless, a golden beacon in a sea of red. But he knew it was her. He could smell her sweat, her pheromones, her femininity. He had her now. He was surely her champion now.

There was a shimmer and splash onto him, so delicate a gesture amidst his fury, and he roared a peal of triumph. He continued, ever faster, closer and closer, veins pulsing and lips drooling and sweat dripping, inserting himself to her brim as he approached the brink. His knuckles strained beneath his skin, his whole body gathering itself and growing tight. None who ever faced the mighty Thrall walked out of the arena.

Baring his teeth to the mass beneath him in another extravagant battle cry, Thrall staked his claim in a fourth and final bout of ecstasy. Blood filled his gums and the rose petals and paper fronds from the stands fluttered on the wind down to the pit below. He lapped up the hisses and cheers, pumping with survival, rabid with success. He bent low and nibbled at her, too, checking her pulse in order to declare his unequivocal victory.

She did not move much, but she was certainly alive.

 

"Jaina," he announced, sure and strong. "I am here."

Her neck throbbed under his teeth. Color began to seep back into his vision. The dull darkness of the Lady's bedroom crept in below the ebbing bloodlust.

"Jaina," he said again, softer.

 

He removed himself from her slowly, setting her legs down as he did so. His crouch dissolved into a kneel beside her, a wall of haggard malaise slamming into him with the cold night air. The arena was gone, as were all the walls of Hillsbrad. It was himself and Jaina and the four walls of her bedroom now, plus the door that had been torn off its hinges.

 

"Jaina," he breathed, barely a whisper. Finally, she stirred.

"Light, Thrall..."

"I am here."

"S-sometimes, I... I forget... you are an orc."

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this months ago pretty much in an all-nighter stupor, not really as a joke per se but because smut is inconsequential and i was trying to write something of actual merit but was being plagued by the intrusive thought "thrall the fuck engine" for like 8 straight hours


End file.
